Please discuss this statement in GROUP 3 discussions ONLY.
Claudia Barnett (Middle Tennessee State University)
Byrony Lavery's Frozen
“… Something New”: Bryony Lavery’s Frozen
“Oh, my God, no,” Bryony Lavery quipped in early 2004 when asked if Frozen were based on her personal experience. “We don’t want the playwright on the stage. There should be a law against that” (qtd. in Wolf). What she didn’t say was that it was based on other people’s experience, and what she didn’t foresee was that one of them would think there should be a law against that. Frozen hauntingly conveys the devastating loss of self, the insatiable thirst of science, and the mad illogic of a damaged mind. Lavery’s masterpiece pairs artistry and social conscience, asking its audience to reconsider our views about forgiveness and responsibility, to re-examine our core beliefs. Frozen is a remarkably original play. It’s also plagiarized. How can it be both?
Frozen explores the intersecting lives of a woman whose daughter disappears, the serial killer who abducts the girl, and the psychiatrist who studies the killer. Nancy is based on Marian Partington, whose sister Lucy went missing in 1973. Agnetha is based on Dorothy Otnow Lewis, a psychiatrist who correlates brain damage and criminal violence. Ralph is based on Frederick West, who murdered Lucy Partington, and on other serial killers, including Ted Bundy, who were subjects of Lewis. Lavery’s sources include a Guardian article in which Partington comes to terms with her sister’s death, Lewis’ memoir of her life’s work, and a New Yorker profile of Lewis by Malcolm Gladwell. Details, sentiments, and entire sentences from all three texts appear in Frozen, but Lavery acknowledged only Partington.
When Lewis recognized herself in Agnetha, she was furious: “I felt I’d been robbed. She lifted my life” (qtd. in McKinley). She demanded credit and royalties (McKinley), and because Lavery had invented an affair for the character, Lewis accused her of “slander” (Gladwell, “Something”). Gladwell more generously, in response to the 675 words Lavery lifted verbatim from “Damaged,” simply said, “I would have been happy to let her quote whatever she wanted had she asked. […] But I wish she would have asked” (qtd. in McKinley).
Lewis attempted to enlist Gladwell in her crusade, but instead he wrote “Something Borrowed,” in which he muses about plagiarism and realizes: “instead of feeling that my words had been taken from me, I felt that they had become part of some grander cause.” The rules for art and scholarship are, or should be different, argues Gladwell–as does Richard Schechner in response to the recent Theory for Performance Studies scandal (13). When a scholar plagiarizes, s/he simply repeats, but an artist creates something new. Context constitutes originality. When Marcel Duchamp claimed a urinal was art, it became art. Lavery’s creation of Frozen was not as daring; she wasn’t trying to change any rules. Yet perhaps, as a result, she did so, causing people to reassess not only their views of criminality but of art.
The issues here are legal, moral, and aesthetic. Lavery should have cited Gladwell; he wrote the most famous line of her play. (“The difference between a crime of evil and a crime of illness is the difference between a sin and a symptom.”) That’s a legal matter. Lewis’ case is moral. Lavery, however, did not attain her portrait of Lewis by stalking her or breaching a confession; she simply read her profile and her book–things that Lewis herself had freely revealed. Artists base works on public figures all the time. Gladwell says of Lewis, “She’s upset about art […] It’s just that art is not a breach of ethics,” and that’s exactly right. But what is art? I’m intrigued by definitions of art and how Lavery’s “borrowing” reflects the nature of creativity in postmodern times.
Last fall my freshman writing students read Frozen and, later, the two Gladwell articles. I’d hoped to spark discussion about a plagiarism, but my students were more interested in the concept of originality. Some were offended that Lavery hadn’t written “her own play” and explained that “if she were truly creative,” then the plot, the characters, and every detail would have come “from her imagination.” When challenged about Shakespeare, who notoriously lifted plots from other plays, they forgave him because his society sanctioned the practice. They frowned when quizzed about collage and about Anna Deavere Smith, whose monologues originated as other speakers’ words. I was afraid to mention the 10-minute play I was writing at the time, that contained so many stanzas from Emily Dickinson and quotations from the New YorkTimes that I’d joked I’d written only one page myself. I’d like to think I’m being original even in my copying. But I cite my sources. So does Naomi Wallace, who provides bibliographies for her plays, and Sarah Ruhl, whose clever disclaimer–“Things that seem impossibly strange in the play are all true […]. Things that seem commonplace are my own invention”–I plan to steal. By making plain our research, we avoid allegations of plagiarism and also unoriginality–though the two aren’t necessarily related. Had Lavery acknowledged all her sources, my students would never have considered the issue of originality. But the charge of plagiarism got them thinking about creativity, and they used it as a springboard to (astutely? naïvely? dangerously?) arbitrate art.
Is there something feminine or feminist about embracing (but not appropriating) other people’s stories?—perhaps an inherent collaborative stance especially suited to the creation of drama? Is Lavery particularly liable, and are Wallace and Ruhl so careful, because they’re female? Is that why Frozen is better known for being plagiarized than for being a brilliant play? I’m not sure. I am sure that while Lavery could have cited her sources, she could not have written this play without using these sources. Yet that doesn’t make it any less hers, or any less new. “[A] playwright is a maker of plays, not necessarily a writer of plays”: Sue-Ellen Case explains the etymology in Feminism and Theater (29). Lavery didn’t write every line of Frozen, but she did make it.
Works Cited
Case, Sue-Ellen. Feminism and Theatre. New York: Routledge, 1988.
Gladwell, Malcolm. “Damaged.” New Yorker 24 Feb. 1997: 132-147. www.gladwell.com 18 Aug. 2009.
–-. “Something Borrowed.” New Yorker 22 Nov. 2004: 40-48. www.gladwell.com 18 Aug. 2009.
Lavery, Bryony. Frozen. New York: Faber, 2002.
Lewis, Dorothy Otnow. Guilty by Reason of Insanity. New York: Ivy, 1998.
McKinley, Jesse. “Playwright Created a Psychiatrist by Plagiarizing One, Accusers Say.” New York Times 25 Sept. 2004. LexisNexis 19 Aug. 2009.
Partington, Marian. “Salvaging the Sacred.” Guardian 18 May 1996: T14. LexisNexis 18 Aug. 2009.
Ruhl, Sarah. In the Next Room (or the Vibrator Play). Unpublished manuscript.
Schechner, Richard. “Plagiarism, Greed, and the Dumbing Down of Performance Studies.” TDR 53.1 (2009): 7-13.
Wolf, Matt. “Breaking Ice in an Arctic Sea.” New York Times 14 Marc. 2004: AR7+. LexisNexis 19 Aug. 2009.
Please discuss this statement in GROUP 3 discussions ONLY.
Claudia Barnett (Middle Tennessee State University)
Byrony Lavery's Frozen
“… Something New”: Bryony Lavery’s Frozen
“Oh, my God, no,” Bryony Lavery quipped in early 2004 when asked if Frozen were based on her personal experience. “We don’t want the playwright on the stage. There should be a law against that” (qtd. in Wolf). What she didn’t say was that it was based on other people’s experience, and what she didn’t foresee was that one of them would think there should be a law against that. Frozen hauntingly conveys the devastating loss of self, the insatiable thirst of science, and the mad illogic of a damaged mind. Lavery’s masterpiece pairs artistry and social conscience, asking its audience to reconsider our views about forgiveness and responsibility, to re-examine our core beliefs. Frozen is a remarkably original play. It’s also plagiarized. How can it be both?
Frozen explores the intersecting lives of a woman whose daughter disappears, the serial killer who abducts the girl, and the psychiatrist who studies the killer. Nancy is based on Marian Partington, whose sister Lucy went missing in 1973. Agnetha is based on Dorothy Otnow Lewis, a psychiatrist who correlates brain damage and criminal violence. Ralph is based on Frederick West, who murdered Lucy Partington, and on other serial killers, including Ted Bundy, who were subjects of Lewis. Lavery’s sources include a Guardian article in which Partington comes to terms with her sister’s death, Lewis’ memoir of her life’s work, and a New Yorker profile of Lewis by Malcolm Gladwell. Details, sentiments, and entire sentences from all three texts appear in Frozen, but Lavery acknowledged only Partington.
When Lewis recognized herself in Agnetha, she was furious: “I felt I’d been robbed. She lifted my life” (qtd. in McKinley). She demanded credit and royalties (McKinley), and because Lavery had invented an affair for the character, Lewis accused her of “slander” (Gladwell, “Something”). Gladwell more generously, in response to the 675 words Lavery lifted verbatim from “Damaged,” simply said, “I would have been happy to let her quote whatever she wanted had she asked. […] But I wish she would have asked” (qtd. in McKinley).
Lewis attempted to enlist Gladwell in her crusade, but instead he wrote “Something Borrowed,” in which he muses about plagiarism and realizes: “instead of feeling that my words had been taken from me, I felt that they had become part of some grander cause.” The rules for art and scholarship are, or should be different, argues Gladwell–as does Richard Schechner in response to the recent Theory for Performance Studies scandal (13). When a scholar plagiarizes, s/he simply repeats, but an artist creates something new. Context constitutes originality. When Marcel Duchamp claimed a urinal was art, it became art. Lavery’s creation of Frozen was not as daring; she wasn’t trying to change any rules. Yet perhaps, as a result, she did so, causing people to reassess not only their views of criminality but of art.
The issues here are legal, moral, and aesthetic. Lavery should have cited Gladwell; he wrote the most famous line of her play. (“The difference between a crime of evil and a crime of illness is the difference between a sin and a symptom.”) That’s a legal matter. Lewis’ case is moral. Lavery, however, did not attain her portrait of Lewis by stalking her or breaching a confession; she simply read her profile and her book–things that Lewis herself had freely revealed. Artists base works on public figures all the time. Gladwell says of Lewis, “She’s upset about art […] It’s just that art is not a breach of ethics,” and that’s exactly right. But what is art? I’m intrigued by definitions of art and how Lavery’s “borrowing” reflects the nature of creativity in postmodern times.
Last fall my freshman writing students read Frozen and, later, the two Gladwell articles. I’d hoped to spark discussion about a plagiarism, but my students were more interested in the concept of originality. Some were offended that Lavery hadn’t written “her own play” and explained that “if she were truly creative,” then the plot, the characters, and every detail would have come “from her imagination.” When challenged about Shakespeare, who notoriously lifted plots from other plays, they forgave him because his society sanctioned the practice. They frowned when quizzed about collage and about Anna Deavere Smith, whose monologues originated as other speakers’ words. I was afraid to mention the 10-minute play I was writing at the time, that contained so many stanzas from Emily Dickinson and quotations from the New York Times that I’d joked I’d written only one page myself. I’d like to think I’m being original even in my copying. But I cite my sources. So does Naomi Wallace, who provides bibliographies for her plays, and Sarah Ruhl, whose clever disclaimer–“Things that seem impossibly strange in the play are all true […]. Things that seem commonplace are my own invention”–I plan to steal. By making plain our research, we avoid allegations of plagiarism and also unoriginality–though the two aren’t necessarily related. Had Lavery acknowledged all her sources, my students would never have considered the issue of originality. But the charge of plagiarism got them thinking about creativity, and they used it as a springboard to (astutely? naïvely? dangerously?) arbitrate art.
Is there something feminine or feminist about embracing (but not appropriating) other people’s stories?—perhaps an inherent collaborative stance especially suited to the creation of drama? Is Lavery particularly liable, and are Wallace and Ruhl so careful, because they’re female? Is that why Frozen is better known for being plagiarized than for being a brilliant play? I’m not sure. I am sure that while Lavery could have cited her sources, she could not have written this play without using these sources. Yet that doesn’t make it any less hers, or any less new. “[A] playwright is a maker of plays, not necessarily a writer of plays”: Sue-Ellen Case explains the etymology in Feminism and Theater (29). Lavery didn’t write every line of Frozen, but she did make it.
Works Cited
Case, Sue-Ellen. Feminism and Theatre. New York: Routledge, 1988.
Gladwell, Malcolm. “Damaged.” New Yorker 24 Feb. 1997: 132-147. www.gladwell.com 18 Aug. 2009.
–-. “Something Borrowed.” New Yorker 22 Nov. 2004: 40-48. www.gladwell.com 18 Aug. 2009.
Lavery, Bryony. Frozen. New York: Faber, 2002.
Lewis, Dorothy Otnow. Guilty by Reason of Insanity. New York: Ivy, 1998.
McKinley, Jesse. “Playwright Created a Psychiatrist by Plagiarizing One, Accusers Say.” New York Times 25 Sept. 2004. LexisNexis 19 Aug. 2009.
Partington, Marian. “Salvaging the Sacred.” Guardian 18 May 1996: T14. LexisNexis 18 Aug. 2009.
Ruhl, Sarah. In the Next Room (or the Vibrator Play). Unpublished manuscript.
Schechner, Richard. “Plagiarism, Greed, and the Dumbing Down of Performance Studies.” TDR 53.1 (2009): 7-13.
Wolf, Matt. “Breaking Ice in an Arctic Sea.” New York Times 14 Marc. 2004: AR7+. LexisNexis 19 Aug. 2009.